


God and the Machine

by immortalbears



Series: One Shots and Standalones [8]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Manipulative Relationship, POV Second Person, Religion Kink, Sexual Content, Switch Felix, Switch Locus, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:56:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5900896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortalbears/pseuds/immortalbears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are Felix, and you like to think of yourself as immortal. Infinite. Godly, perhaps. What is a God to do when their chosen one is less than perfect?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sacred and the Mundane

**Author's Note:**

> \- Gore mention.  
> \- Religious allegories.  
> \- "You" are Felix. Second person.  
> \- Questionable ideas of romance.  
> \- Sex, that will eventually happen in a cathedral on Earth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the ancient philosophers, Kierkegaard, had something to say about an obsolete religion. Obsolete in the times of war and in your life, anyway. He compared the act of faith to that of taking a leap into infinity. You recall that bit of useless knowledge in the moment you took it upon yourself to leap. 
> 
> For a moment, you felt infinite; you felt like you were immortal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> The Smashing Pumpkins - The Sacred and the Profane ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTqjRJ7CvMo )

Locus is infuriating.

“Your job is to do this.” And that. _And_ he'll make ten more suggestions about how you can better do something while you're goddamn working on it. He wants you to do it, but only in the specific way that he wants it. On top of that? He'll make sure that you'll keep your mouth shut except when he wants you to open it. I.e: when he has a use for it.

“ _Felix_.” You know that he wants you to be quiet, and you do not doubt that his patience is running thin. You roll your eyes and hate him dearly; he acts as if it's so terrible for you to do the one thing you enjoy: speak.

This asshole seems to derive enjoyment from nothing. Worse: He seems to want to suck the fun out of everything.

Still, if there’s one thing Locus does well, it is that he covers you, completes you and makes you whole. Your shield only covers about a hundred and eighty degrees worth of fire at best; you need somebody at your back. _He_ is that person at your back.

Locus is the only person that you can trust to be there, every single time you need him. This, to be honest, scares you.

It goes against the fundamental law of humanity, which is: The strong survive and the weak die. There is only one at the apex, not two.

(So _what_ if you happen to enjoy this survival-of-the-fittest game? You are _good_ at it. People kill one another all the time; life is simply a matter of gaining advantage over the others. It's common sense. There's nothing wrong in loving _life_ , in all of its hideous glory.)

Back to the point. You are afraid of him because _trust_ is inherently fragile. You know that, seeing people who once loved you and trusted you turn their backs on you all the time. Eventually, you had learnt to show only parts of yourself so that they would like you. You built up this picture of yourself that you thought they would like, like fucking Rembrandt or something. Alas, you are not Rembrandt. What you are – have become – is a performance artist skilled in the arts of deconstructionism – you crush their fragile little emotions. It is nothing personal – hey, if you're going to play the game, you might as well make it _fun_.

You are not sure if he trusts you, but you can always count on his presence to complete you while you leave yourself open. (To gloat, of course. What's the point in completely _owning_ somebody if you can't at least let them know what a loser they are?)

The thrill of exposing yourself means nothing if it is not followed by the certainty of his gun, which is pointed at your enemies while your back is turned. This sort of partnership is like a very complex and beautiful dance. You twist and twirl, then leap, while your partner catches you as you fall.

How _romantic_.

You do not like the idea of... _Hah_ , romance.

You know that he doesn't catch you because he trusts you. He catches you because you are falling, and he does not want you to fall. There is a subtle difference.

One of the ancient philosophers, Kierkegaard, had something to say about an obsolete religion. Obsolete in the times of war and in your life, anyway. (You _are_ your own religion.) He compared the act of faith to that of taking a leap into infinity. You recall that bit of useless knowledge in the moment you took it upon yourself to leap. For a moment, you felt infinite; you felt like you were immortal. (What is more infinite than being immortal?) When Locus was there, it was as if he caught you in that intricate dance after you had chosen to leap.

And so you take that leap of faith, time and time again. The more you do it, the more it feels like you _are_ infinite. That feeling arises from your finite form, when Locus saves you from a certain impending death. From whence does the feeling come? From inside your faithless heart, which is so barren of trust. _From you._

You are _so,_ completely and utterly, _fucked_.

Sometimes, you catch Locus looking at you, and you wonder if there is a smile underneath that mask. Perhaps. Perhaps not. It is like the Schroedinger's smile; a possibility of two as thesis and an antithesis bound together in the perfect harmony of uncertainty. (For you, existence, your consciousness, your personhood – all of that is the objective and ultimate truth. Whether or not he is smiling is merely a hypothesis about the relation of two co-existing possibilities.)

You take off your helmet and show him your face, because you’re pretty and why the hell not? It is like giving him the gift of your voice, or your presence. You are beautiful and you think he, only he, deserves to see you in your full glory.

Though, frankly, beauty is subjective. Fortunately for you, you are also the subject from which all meaning arises. You are the center of the universe; the universe only came to be when you first opened your eyes to perceive it. Then, surely, as you die, so too will it fade away; not with a bang, but a whimper.

What is beauty? Beauty can be found in the way your eyelashes catch the snowflakes on a frozen planet. Beauty is in the way your upper lips curl up when you fight. You sometimes even see it in other things, like one of the fifty sunsets on a small, forgotten planet that is neither Earth nor Chorus. You see it in Locus' eyes; green and golden brown flecks that were a part of an artificial implant wired into his nervous system. You even see it in the way blood pools around the body of your enemy. When you lift your arms to plunge a knife into a person's throat while straddling them, that movement is elegant. The result of that, the dismembered body, is beautiful. There is beauty in the grotesque, as well as in the pristine.

You wonder if Locus appreciates beauty the same way as you do. You like to think that he does. This is because if you could choose your form, you could be one of those biblical angels. Blinding, radiant, with six sublime wings and a thousand eyes. Instead, you are not; you are smaller than he is, intimidating only to those who are confronted with the wrong end of your blade.

He acts like you are a nuisance, and every day you find a new blasphemy to forgive. He requests that you stop sleeping around with other people. You concede, even though it is a travesty that somebody actually requests that of you. But you are his God, and you have chosen him to be the only.

Consecrated by your presence, everything he does is as gold as the throne on which you sit. You consider what would drive him away, and grant his prayer.

There is no point in a God that does not hear; you are afraid that he will become Godless, lost to you. In all of your four faced majesty, you can only look upon him with mercy and a smile. With eight hands behind your back to perform with, you give him only gestures of kindness. You promise him felicity in exchange for fastidious piousness. You give him refuge. You breathe life into him by offering him a reason to continue sustaining the only thing that keeps him strong. You prop up (and mock, because you are not a kind God) the identity that he has constructed for himself.

It is not uncommon for the weak to come to you and ask for something. You promise them things, but only if you can deliver them in the most twisted way that you can imagine.

Not with Locus. Never for him.

For him, you are weak, because he is like the fallen angel who had wormed its way into the divine’s heart and challenged his reign from below. Only _he_ is special; he is the only worthy adversary.

“Better to rule in hell than to serve in heaven,” wrote Milton. You have learnt the lesson from the story. You will not drive Locus from you, like the myth states about what a certain religious construct did with his favourite angel.

Each time your gauntlets come off and you manage to pull his helmet off, you love him. At least, it is an undefinable feeling that sinks into the back of your belly, the same way dread consumes you when you are alone and there are guns pointed at your back. Sometimes it even makes you happy, to think that you are taking that metaphorical leap again, but with him, instead. Without him, you are not complete. Without him, you feel unreal. Like an infinite being, splendid in all of its majesty, without somebody worthy to behold.

“Locus. Hey, Locs.” You say, when both of you part from a kiss, and he looks at you with a crease between his eyebrows.

“You seem to be in a good mood.” Locus observes.

“Great job figuring out the obvious! Why, I certainly didn't know that. Thanks for telling me.”

Locus sighs, and looks pointedly at you. A laugh escapes from you, his obvious irritation from being mocked bringing you joy.

“I have an idea.” You grin. He, on the other hand, looks like he needs some convincing.

Despite his boorish nature, you manage to get him to listen about how beautiful the ancient ruins on Earth are. You show how much you have researched about the subject of ancient religions on Earth by talking about how much gold goes into it. Does Locus know that they used solid gold in ritualistic cups? He seems to listen, thoughtfully.

“If we go there, we will have to locate an exact site that has not already been looted. I doubt the cost of going there to loot the site for would be worth it, Felix.” Locus finally says.

You fall silent for once. He has gotten to the heart of the matter; money. _Money_ is what stops you from doing just about anything you want to, or love; you do not have the influence of big businessmen like Charon Industries, which was enriched by its affiliation with the UNSC. Of course, it enables you to continue killing, so you're not complaining too hard about it. _Still_ , somebody like you only deserves the very best, and the thought that you cannot get that is simply unbearable.

Locus looks at you for a long time, unflinching even as you feel your cheeks flush in anger and you bare your teeth at him. You draw your knife while facing him. He seems mildly alarmed as he reaches for his gun. You laugh, because he would kill you if he was given a reason, would he not? _Of course_ he would. And you would even let him, perhaps, because you cannot envision how you could live without him. You turn around and throw the knife at a tree.

Your back is facing him when he reaches for your arm. You turn around to knock his hand away, angry at the entire world for not being the way you want it to be. You deserves so much more; always did. Always will.

“Say...” You say, gears turning in your head. Locus comes up to you and holds you from behind now, and you let him. It is nice to be comforted this way. “Don't we get to meet a new client next week? If I can convince him to pay us more, can we each pay for half of the trip to Earth?”

Locus hesitates. “I am not sure it is enough money, Felix. Our equipment requires maintenance.”

You roll your eyes and shake him away, then stomp off. In that very moment, you are convinced that Locus is undeserving of you.

*


	2. The Thorn In His Side, The Wire Around His Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sure, you can see why they would ignore you. Some draw the line at thieving, some draw the line at having their shoes vomited on. Others, being lied to, being blamed for something which is obviously their fault, or murder. But that's just because they're not worthy.
> 
> You – Felix – you are quite the little firestarter, with the habit of burning every bridge you cross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Smashing Pumpkins - Stand inside your love ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EGiVyIQ3b2M )

You are pretty sure that the trip won't even cost that much. You hate everything; you hate how Locus makes you feel – like an immature child who wants something meaningless yet expensive, stopped only by the paragon of responsibility. You hate how you don't know the numbers well enough to justify yourself against his objections. You absolutely despise him because of how hesitant he is to indulge in something that you wanted, at that moment, with all of your heart and soul.

You fume as you stomp into the room inside the ship; you would have slammed the door were it the manual sort. You throw a pillow at the walls, and, finding it not loud enough, look for something heavier and unbreakable.

“Felix.” Locus says, quietly, as you reach for your other pillow instead.

“What?!” You spin around in irritation, making sure to show him your teeth even as you grit them.

“You forgot your gauntlets.” He says, putting your gauntlets on the stand right beside the table.

“Huh.” You can feel your own voice soften, as your mind feels muddled, like you are angry for something really trivial. _No_ , you decide within a split second, _I have every right to be angry._ You can't, however, chew him out for this one act. It would be like yelling at a dog for bringing you your slippers.

You do not want to hurt your dog, your only faithful. (You hate the limitations of his free will being imposed upon you.) At a loss for words, you simply say, “Okay.”

You hate how that makes you feel. Not having any words, for you, is like being robbed of something so fundamental to yourself. You deliberately turn your back against him again. You can picture him watching your back, and you can imagine the crease between his eyebrows returning again. The light wrinkle there is so characteristic, that you honestly can't tell whether or not you are responsible for Locus making that face so often. (You like to think that you have marked him permanently, with your rascally ways.)

It serves him _right_ for not giving you what you deserve.

If he knows what you need, he will come up to you and hold you again, from behind. You will ask again, basing your request on more logical grounds, and he will concede.

The seconds that follow are far too long. You have not heard him go, but then again, Locus usually does not make sounds as he moves. Perhaps he has already left, and you are standing there, like a fool, seething on your own. You hate the uncertainty that relying on him brings, but all you need right then is for him to calm your entire soul. You feel like the sea, its torrents subject to the whim of the impartial moon. It makes you feel restless and angry, that what stirs up something so profound inside you is so trivial to the other.

When you finally turn around, you realise that he is gone. You pick up your pillows from the floor, like a real loser, and get ready to sulk at him for the rest of the day, assuming that he comes around again.

He doesn't. You are tired of being let down. You deserve so much better than to have your fate and choices tied to this imbecile, so you start making plans for the trip.

You know that there are plenty of flaws in all of these ideas. You do not care, because you are now motivated by spite. Sweet, delicious spite is the prime motivator of all your actions, other than the drive for that unadulterated feeling of happiness that you get from being powerful. (You _know_ that you are powerful. You are beautiful, powerful... Glorious. It is indeed wonderful to be you. You are _also_ spiteful.)

For instance, you don't exactly want Locus to languish on some weird planet while you “borrow” the ship. Also, you don't even know how much you have because you have been avoiding your bank account ( _Like a responsible adult_ , you think, sarcastically at yourself). Either way, a part of yourself says that it should be enough, because _you_ are worth the expense and if you would not give yourself that, then who would? Certainly not Locus...

You look for options, getting in contact with people you hadn't seen in ages, sending them messages about taking a trip. One replies to say that they are not interested in such a long journey. Another responds that they may be interested in getting a drink with you.

You are not surprised when most eventually ignore you, because you don't have the attention span to keep them interested in you. At least Locus has something interesting about him, like a broken psyche and a completely jaded and ambivalent outlook. Well, and while he pales beside you, he's not ugly in the least bit.

(You don't _have_ to kill everyone you know, after all. Sure, maybe there was that one time you fucked _somebody's_ boyfriend just to show them that you were better than they were, but that's really their fault for not being attractive enough. Right? Besides, you totally helped them with their relationship problems. They broke up, didn't they? What a _wonderful_ solution.)

These people belong to the masses. The faces of those easily forgotten on the colonies, mainly because you honestly can't stand talking to them for more than ten seconds. You would put up a show if you were given a reason to, maybe make them fawn over you.

The most benefit you could garner from them would be like leading sheep to the slaughterhouse, but only if you had any use for their hide. Even fucking with them is not that interesting; they are just _that_ pathetic.

As it is, you have lost interest in them, and just plain moved on. They should be glad that they were allowed to live, on the off-chance that they will, in the future, be of some use.

You've learnt your lesson: they are useless, of course. Except for the one guy – the one who's interested in “a drink” – whom you would rather die than fuck, but didn't seem to have a clue what he did wrong even though he should know perfectly well what his sin was. (Being ugly, _and_ on top of that, a mediocre piece of shit. Like so many people you've met, just hornier.)

Still, you're furious at them. They should be there at your beck and call, ready to talk to you. You're a great person and your company is the most entertaining one that you know of. Sure, you _can_ see why they would ignore you. Some draw the line at thieving, some draw the line at having their shoes vomited on. Others, being lied to, being blamed for something which is obviously their fault, or murder. But that's just because they're not _worthy_.

You – Felix – you are quite the little firestarter, with the habit of burning every bridge you cross.  


*

Having spent all of yesterday thinking about making that trip to Earth, if only to show Locus that you are capable of doing everything on your own and that you don't need him (though truthfully, you don't _want_ to go without him), you are still angry when you next see him. You glower at him and ignore him completely, until he makes you a cup of coffee and looks at you from across the table. You take the coffee, still annoyed, but now slightly placated.

When he makes you coffee, it is like he is making you an offering. Sometimes he does it to be nice. You know that there is a bit of that in him, no matter how he tries to disavow his humanity. Other times, because he happens to be there, and he knows you will ask for it. He does not actually do it with such consistency that you can expect it from him, though. (You know he doesn't devote himself to you as much as he should. Such is the tragedy of the modern God, forgotten and languishing from the lack of servitude.)

“I did the calculations.” Locus begins, once he sees you take a drink and relax into the chair. “We have enough to go to Earth, even without completing the next mission.”

You knew it. You knew that the budget couldn't possibly be so bad. Still, there has to be a catch, from the way he says it. You squint at him suspiciously. “So... What's the deal, Locus?”

He looks at you, taken aback. “The deal, Felix?”

“Like, surely there has to be some sort of deal that you want to make.” You try not to sound too bitter, but you are. Locus isn't that nice a person, and you know that. What's more, although you don't even like the typical romance that people engage in, a large part of your soul demands that Locus give it all to you, and he never does. Not without reserve. You hate the idea that you could rely on somebody so much and not have it be the same in return.

“No.” Locus growls, revealing a sense of frustration at you. That makes you even more annoyed, since as far as you're concerned, it's his fault.

“Hey, just asking. Since numbers and all that are so important to you, right?” You grin as brightly as you can. Even though it's _his_ fault, you can't exactly let him know that you think so at this point. Not when he's so close to giving in.

Locus narrows his eyes and looks like he is contemplating murder. (The thought pleases you; you have finally gotten to him as much as he has gotten to you. Fair is fair.) He takes in a deep breath, instead. “ _Felix_. Anyway, if you are still interested, we can go to Earth.”

You raise your eyebrows. No point in trying to drive home the point that he's given in to your all-encompassing fury. You are getting what you want now – Locus' agreement, and your trip to Earth. You don't even have to go by yourself, or foot all of the expenses yourself anymore (even though you would definitely do it out of spite). You beam at him, thinking about how wonderful Locus is and how much he loves you, again. There are so many things that you hate about him; there are so many ways that he could never truly love you the way you _deserve_ to be loved, but when it is coming from somebody like him, you are willing to make concessions.

*

Locus barely looks up from the control panel as you pace around in sheer and utter boredom.

“Stop walking.”

You inhale sharply and look at him in irritation, wondering who gave him the right to command you like that. “Look, buddy, I'm bored. It's fucking driving me mad!”

Locus keeps his eyes glued to the screen. You look up at it, too, then from his side, trying to see what he's doing with the console because you are simply _that_ bored.

“Go. Away.”

“I could pilot that, you know.” You say, still standing far too close to Locus for his comfort. (You're fine with that. That's the _point_.)

“No.” He replies, looking up at the screen again with eyebags that look like they are seared into his face. Tragic, really, he has otherwise beautiful eyes. “You can entertain yourself.”

“Just let me drive the ship, Locs!” You grumble, reaching at the console to try and press a button that you are sure would not help, and would probably cause the ship to steer a little off course. (Nothing that can't be easily corrected, of course. But that would definitely irritate the hell out of him.) He swats you away like your hand is nothing but a fly. You hiss, torn between the desire to press every button on the console and the logic that demands that you not do that. “You're an ass, you know that?”

Locus inhales deeply. He lifts you up, the way he lifts one of those incredibly large and heavy guns, and sets you aside like you are nothing but a small rock or crate.

“What the fuck? That's rude as fuck, okay? And I know how to fucking drive! Just because I made ONE tiny mistake when I set the ship for autopilot, doesn't mean I'm fucking incompetent! It's my ship, too, you know?”

“It's not yours. It's _ours_. If you want to crash something, get a bike.” Locus replies. You can't see his expression from there, but his words make you want to kick something. You kick the wall as hard as you can, hearing a metallic sound as your foot slams against it. There's a small dent where your hit landed, but it is barely noticeable. “ _Felix_.”

You throw your hands up in the air and pace around again, this time further away from him. No matter how unreasonable he is, how unfair he is being, he inevitably gets his way. You seethe on the inside, and finally, growing bored, decide to head back to your room again. You flip through the coordinates of the churches on your digital book, having insisted that you would look them up when you actually have no idea what you're doing. Locus would have done it already, and while Earth is not a particularly large planet, you could get lost on it for months without updated 3D cartography. You could ask him to do it now, but it'd be such a loss of face for you, that you cannot possibly bring yourself to.

Bored, you turn away from your datapad. A bright idea dawns on you.

_Why not go for broke?_

 

 


	3. Princes of Chaos and Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus is now dead inside, but you have always been. You burn and you want and you desire, but you are alive in the way a transcendental construct is alive. He, on the other hand, is dead in the way a once living thing is dead.
> 
> You are polar opposites, doomed to be both incapable of unconditional romantic love for each other. (Is love ever unconditional? Love, by its very own nature, is a condition. Love can therefore never be unconditional; motivation out of love is misdirected self-interest, nothing more. So, then, perhaps you aren't as heartless as you seem.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist: Samsas Traum - Khaos-Prinz und Wind-Prinzessin ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3rWjL4UTKQ&t=17m00s )
> 
> This part is NSFW at the end.

The Basilica of Saint Peter's has been the seat of religious power for centuries. It is the result of the joint and collaborative effort of many great artists from the Renaissance, and, _more importantly_ , the only one that's grandiose enough for your ambition. It will be defended, but there's a good chance that it's still in good condition, since it boasts so much heritage and so many monuments.

You think of lugging the Pieta by Michaelangelo into the ship. There probably isn't a realistic way to do it, since flying it around would probably cost more fuel than it would fetch, but you're already thinking of creative ways to turn it into your next centerpiece in your future house. Meeting with somebody immediately afterwards could be an option, but then you would have to stay on Earth, and the longer you do, the more likely it is that somebody will set up a trap for you. You cannot risk being apprehended.

Well, you only do realistic when you _have_ to. In the meantime, you fantasize about having a large suite in a metropolis, preferably on one of the more prestigious cities where it's easy to get on all sorts of ships and meet all sorts of people. (Hopefully, ones that don't bore you.)

_Nice_ _._

“It's settled,” You proclaim, in an empty room, to yourself. You picture yourself as a star, with your stunning good looks and charming, relatable personality, on screen. You smile at the imaginary camera, showing a perfect three quarter profile to your made-up audience. “The Sistine Chapel has nothing on _Rome_.”

You're still not sure about the security there. The information that you found is outdated. You assume that things have changed since the War; they are bound to boast basics, like guards, but whether or not the powers that be would bother to upgrade them to the latest technology is a toss up into the air. Earth may be one of the more well-guarded planets, because of its importance, but the biggest slice of the budgets have gone towards military projects ever since the Great War. You figure that it probably isn't anything you can't handle.

Locus drops by when the course for autopilot is more or less clear. He knocks on your door gently, and you let him in.

“Yes?” You say, with a smile. He looks at you warily, like he is uncertain that your smile is a good or bad thing.

“What happened?” He asks, cautiously.

“I've picked out the destination. Want to help me out with the infiltration plans?”

“It is going to be guarded. By the Swiss Guards, who are a mercenary group of their own. They are a hand-picked elite, morally and ideologically infallible, well-trained, and in their prime years.” Locus says, without missing a beat.

“I haven't even said anything yet.”

“I know you, Felix.” Locus doesn't really smirk, but you can hear it in his voice. You hate it when he does that. It is like he knows something that you don't about yourself. (You frown; you don't like the idea that you're just that predictable.) “You either want the best, or nothing at all.”

“I know that. I just thought it's what they did before the war. Why would anybody pay so well just to keep a small cultural relic safe?” You grumble, throwing your hands up in the air.

“The Vatican City is a state within a state. It is independent from the country it is in. It is also one of the richest city in the world, due to amassing vast amounts of wealth through the centuries.” Locus' eyes glint.

The asshole is being condescending now, and he's probably doing it on purpose. You narrow your eyes and frown for a quick moment, but your face brightens as you beam brightly at him. “...Did you know that the pope once held a banquet with fifty courtesans?”

Locus raises his eyebrows. He doesn't believe you. Of course he doesn't. How naïve. It's nice to know that at least he still has that bit of something in him.

At least you've succeeded in seizing back the power.

“Pope Alexander the Sixth had at least ten children, even after he became pope. It was great, you know, to have so many kids with which you could curry favour with when it comes to nobles.” You love papacy history – the stuff that's off the books, of course. The only people who came closest to God on earth were corrupt – who would have guessed?

“And, of course, it's no secret that everyone else involved would deny that scandal, the so-called Banquet of Chestnuts. Some noble in Italy must have thought, 'Che palle! I had the most orgasms! What would my wife say!' ...So, of course, many people say it can't have happened, except for the one guy with the balls to write it.” You chuckle. Humanity, _glorious humanity_ _,_ stays the same throughout the centuries. “Right, and there's also the guy who sold the papacy. Pope Benedict the Ninth – very memorable guy. Of course, sodomy only ever mattered to the Papacy when it involves willing men and an opponent that you really want to get out of your way. Of course, the corruption doesn't just end there, either – it's just buried under the rug. Not that _I_ would mind, but you know, _pfft_.”

Locus seems intrigued, but he steers the conversation back anyway. “You... have plans, Felix?”

You get up and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down into an embrace. “It's maddening, isn't it? I say we swoop in like Robin Hood and relieve them of some of the relics, fornicate like the papacy to honour their legacy, then destroy everything.”

“No courtesans.”

“Not even male ones?” You purr. “You could watch.”

“No.” He pauses. “Too many witnesses.”

“Not if they're dead.” You use your bedroom voice at Locus. Heaven knows if you're sick of only getting to sit on his rarely available dick once every blue moon.

“...Only if they can help us infiltrate the grounds.”

“Hmm... That's one hell of a condition.” You grin, looking at him. “Did you know that there's at least a few gay strip clubs that's sprung up in the Vatican City just to service the papacy? That's one hell of a scandal, but also an open secret. There's more het ones, of course, but that's not what we're interested in, so...”

Locus seems to be considering it carefully. “This would involve too many people. We are not the papacy, Felix. We do what we have to, then we get out of there.”

“They could help us get in. If things are still the way it's always been, then the Swiss Guards will be complemented with a civilian guard, one maintained by the City itself. You know... Those probably aren't paid particularly well. With a few well-dressed _hirelings_ that nobody would miss, I think at least some of them wouldn't refuse... Services that's just delivering themselves to their doorsteps.” You snort lightly and run your fingers down the textured elastic of his undersuit. It is truly amazing how well-built he is. He relaxes into your embrace, and begins to stroke your hair. The romance is absolutely revolting, but you like the attention, so you let him do it.

“Okay. So I'll let you do the preliminary observations around the perimeters first. I will scout out the rest. You know, social stuff within the city.” You murmur, rubbing his ear. “We'll see how plausible it is to … deliver a couple of boys to the pope, if you catch my drift.”

“Very well. I accept that mission.” Locus looks at you like you are the world. You melt a little, because this is what it is to be loved.

Whenever he looks at you like that, you feel radiant, like a being of pure light. He, who is in need of sun after a long, harsh winter, finally beholds you, and he smiles the smile of salvation while he lifts his face and bathes in your splendour.

Although you are the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end, your infinite magnificence is meaningless without him to behold you. Him, in his finitude, is limited to only his visual understanding of your physical face. Like an idol, he made you in a purer version of his image. (And, perhaps more desirable, because he sees in you a picture of his wishes.)

You look for yourself in the eyes of your believers. Only in his eyes, can you see yourself. What you see, reflected within, is beautiful. He waits for you, way too patiently, so you close in for the kill. You pull him down, tugging on the zipper of his suit.

Locus obliges, but only hesitantly. He does not seem to know if you want him, or if he could touch you. You aren't even sure if he wants you right then, and to be honest, he doesn't want you enough. If he did, he would be touching you. And neither does he want you the way you want him to. You want him to give you what you deserve, which is all of his attention, and then more. After all, you need him even more than he does, which makes the whole relationship so unfair. Your desires may be fickle and sometimes contradictory, but they are all-consuming. You want everything, at all times, with the intensity of a thousand suns. You bring to life everything you touch; you set everything cold and dead in your way ablaze with the embrace of your passion.

His lips are rough and chapped, unlike yours; you feel soft and supple against him. You melt away his sordidness like the sun melts away the snow; you reach for his lifeless hands and press them over your body, feeling it come to life against you.

In comparison, he wants like the touch of Father Winter, cold and hesitant, lulling everything to sleep with the darkness of his inner being. Calmly, he holds you and submerges you into his depths. When you look into his soul, this is what you see: darkness, grey and colourless. There is perhaps a hint of a person that used to be there, the weakling that both of you used to know.

The fool that, ultimately, did not deserve to live. (You are glad to know that Locus has killed it; the childish little human that once begged for the enemy's life. You are absolutely delighted to have helped him plunge the knife into that weakling; after all, God creates man in his image. You are strong, so you make him strong. You have shaped Locus to your desire, out of your own flesh and blood. Unlike Locus, you actually knew what you were changing, and who you were helping to make. Like clay, he had yielded to your touch.)

He is now dead inside, but you have always been. You burn and you want and you desire, but you are alive in the way a transcendental construct is alive. He, on the other hand, is dead in the way a once living thing is dead.

You are polar opposites, doomed to be both incapable of unconditional romantic love for each other. (Is love ever unconditional? Love, by its very own nature, is a condition. Love can therefore never be unconditional; motivation out of love is misdirected self-interest, nothing more. So, then, perhaps you aren't as heartless as you seem.)

You pull him over to where you want him to be, and he lets you. You push him down, straddle him, and you take off your undersuit, letting him see the beautiful shape that your mortal form has taken. (Ah, pity that this flesh prison will eventually grow old. You milk its young appearance for what it's worth, biting your lower lip at him while he positions you carefully over himself.)

What you have, however, surpasses love; it is a bond forged of blood and steel, of pain and suffering, and of mutual trust and reliance. What connects you is even better than the foolishness that drives youths to their deaths in fiction. (You have nothing but scorn for those; they are simply weaklings that deserve what they get.)

The rarity of your connection with Locus is to be treasured, because only in the turbulent reflection of his emptiness does your tranquil light shine eternal. Dedication above love. Trust above the falseness of premises that claim to only have the other in mind.

You sink your teeth into his neck and leave scars; you wrap your smaller hands around his neck and he lets you do so, looking up with a calm and controlled gaze. Today, he is yours; he doesn't push you down and take you like he sometimes does – you would have to goad him into doing that, but everything has its own time and place. In your infinite wisdom, you have chosen to bless him, and to consecrate him.

Intertwined, you are tested by fate repeatedly, and you have both emerged victorious. As partners.

The fact that he is still here is proof of that.

You could so easily kill him, just as he could so easily kill you. The thought makes you shiver and twitch, and you ride him until it becomes too much. You push him into you as deeply as you can, feel the tremours wreck you from within, and push him back out. Your seed, your essence, splatter onto him, forming beautiful pearly patterns on his skin.

You smirk, raising your eyebrow at his still aching erection.

“Felix.” He says, through gritted teeth.

You grin, and continue to rub his cock against the tender skin between your legs. Pressing your hands down, you keep him still, watching him as he covers his face and a warm wetness drips between your thighs.

You love it when he lets you do that; you feel like you are the most powerful being on earth. Having a tall, mascular man right below you come undone as you allow him to...

Well, that is _almost_ as good as coming undone below him.

“...You can take me at the Cathedral, Locus.” You whisper, lying on top of him as if he's a pillow. His eyes are already shut, and you can feel him falling asleep below you. You're way too excited, of course; you've edged yourself to the brink and back so many times that you don't even feel the _somnia_ until it hits you point blank. (Besides, it's often better to get the cum out of yourself before it starts to get sticky and gross.) “The pope and his male courtesan? Perhaps the pope's a sadist who likes to keep his boys in collars. Spices it up a little.”

“Tempting.” He murmurs, an arm wrapped around your waist. “Didn't know you were into historical reenactment.”

“Pfft, history's full of people killing each other since the dawn of time. And fucking. Of course I would be.” You think briefly about breaking his arm. You would never do that to your partner, of course, for hurting him is the same as hurting you, but you think about it, anyway. You fall asleep, content at the idea that it would be so easy to do it if you wanted to.

That _is_ , after all, what trust is. When it comes to trust, nobody else can beat the two of you.

 

 

 

 


End file.
